Dwarf Magic
by lingering nomad
Summary: A entire squadron of templars lies dead, killed on Chantry grounds. Fenris is worried, but Kirkwall's favourite storyteller sets his mind at ease.


**Topography:** "spoken dialogue," "_flashback dialogue_," '_thoughts_,' _emphasis_

**A/N:** Set during the time-lapse in 'Talk is Cheap,' because if anyone could do with a bit of 'mothering' from the Paragon of Chest Hair, it's Hawke's favourite elf. Implied Fenris/Male Hawke. Don't like, don't read.

~Dwarf Magic~

"Then, you do not believe what happened in the Chantry is cause for concern?" the elf asked, one bottle-green eye peering through a parting in silvery-white bangs in dire need of a trim. The wording was frank, the tone cautious; hallmarks of a man more accustomed to fighting and fleeing than speaking his mind.

Varric linked his fingers and leaned back in his human-sized high back, watching the elf watch him. Hawke's estimation of the kid's age had settled the number on twenty-two. Barely an adult by any standard, though it might well be less given the hardships the ex-slave had hinted at enduring. He really was pretty, though. And not '_for a man_,' either. This kid – he had the kind of looks that inspired: bards to song, writers to prose, artists to immortalise. Madmen to depravity…

Edwina bustled into the suite, plopping their lunch down with maximum brusqueness and for once, Varric found himself grateful for the waitress' intrusive demeanour as it kept his visitor from questioning the grimace he couldn't quite keep off his face.

Yeah, the elf was a looker, alright. But Hawke wasn't the sort to risk life and limb – especially not his little brother's – over a set of big green eyes and bow-shaped lips. An apostate the human might be, but he was surprisingly dedicated to the Chantry's whole 'serve-not-rule' spiel, employing something of a zero-tolerance policy against any of his fellows who tried to promote an opposite view. So Varric understood why his friend had disregarded their profit margin to help the boy and in hindsight, he was glad for the bounty hunter's decision to recruit him. Even if several of his reservations had yet to be appeased.

For one thing, alliances based on loyalty and trust, as opposed to intimidation and fear, were obviously foreign to the young Tevinterite's experience. Still, his effort to learn (if Varric was reading him right and he was rarely wrong on these counts) _was_ heartening. "If you're asking if I'm losing sleep over it, then the answer is 'no,'" he replied, reaching for his goblet.

He got a glower in response, but as the dwarf had discovered, on Fenris' features that could well be considered a neutral expression. "Then you see nothing wrong with such a course of action?" the kid pressed, tone incredulous, though slanting more toward curious than accusatory.

Deciding to take it as a positive sign, Varric scanned the doorway for eavesdroppers. Spotting none, he leaned across the corner of the table, voice low so as not carry an inch past his guest's tapered ears. "Look Spikey, I know your experience with…_Fereldans_ hasn't been altogether endearing," there were some risks even _he_ didn't take and using the 'm-word' in conjunction with the name of his friend and would-be co-investor was near the top of the list, "but Hawke's no mad dog and the way he tells it, those guys destroyed a man's mind for writing a letter to their boss. I hate to break it to you, Elf, but Hawke's kind aren't the only people in Thedas with a talent for tyranny."

Fenris seemed to consider this. "Perhaps not," he conceded after a beat. "But power _does_ have a tendency to corrupt. Without fail in my experience, and…_Fereldans _have power in spades."

Varric shrugged, tearing off a piece of slightly stale bread and dunking it in his stew. Breakfast with Bartrand had run late and he hadn't planned on eating again this soon, but it was becoming apparent that the kid wasn't going to unless he did and the whole point of ordering food was to get some nourishment into that wiry frame. Elves as a people were slender by default, but this one's bones jutted a tad too close to his skin for Varric's peace of mind. "It's all down to ends and means, friend," he explained between bites. "I don't doubt that this 'master' of yours deserves to have his skin peeled off an inch an hour, but from what I've seen around here, Hawke's kind are about as immune to abuse as the zealots are hesitant to inflict it, which is to say, not at all. The real question is if two wrongs can ever make a right. And I'm afraid I really don't have an answer for you."

The elf nodded at this, visibly stowing the thought away to be mulled over later. He'd started eating to Varric's relief, and for a second the dwarf found himself gaping at the boy's table manners – which were _impeccable_.

It was not what he'd expected from the skinny, skittish young mercenary, but a moment's reflection revealed the rashness of the assumption. Fenris wasn't exactly chatty, but there was a refined sort of formality to his speech that was scarcer than lyrium this far below the High Town boundary. A magister's "_pet_" he'd said he was, and a well-trained one it seemed.

_Too_ well for the relatively thuggish tasks of a simple 'guard-dog...'

Another stab of pity lanced through Varric's guts at the thought and this time, he shoved it aside. The kid didn't need anyone's pity. What he _did_ need, was a chance at a life as something more. "So Elf, you ever play Wicked Grace?"

Fenris' spoon stopped midway to his mouth, eyes glancing up to scowl through his hair. The suspicion on his face was damn near heart-breaking.

"The card game?" Varric clarified.

The frown turned apprehensive. "I…should be going shortly. I've imposed on your hospitality enough as it as is."

"Nonsense!" Varric cried, meaning it. "Your dance routine can wait – stay. One friendly game. I insist."

Silence hung between them as the kid shifted in his seat. He glanced down at his bowl, pretending to stir, though it wasn't hard to deduce that the posture had more to do with seeking refuge behind that curtain of snowy hair than mixing his food. He took another bite before shrugging, the motion atypically stiff. "I haven't," he admitted, voice gruff as he braved eye contact through his hair yet again, "played that is. I…do not know how."

Varric smiled warmly, pleasantly surprised. Not at the admission so much as that the elf was willing to make it. "Well then. Guess I'll just have to teach you, won't I?"


End file.
